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by Foampunch



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Even in a serious fic, RIV Tillman, you can pry horseblind silv from my cold dead hands, you dumb bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foampunch/pseuds/Foampunch
Summary: Silvaire Roadhouse finds comfort in listening to the complaints of one Tillman Henderson
Relationships: Tillman Henderson/Silvaire Roadhouse
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Home

Baltimore ain't much like home. 

First thing that hits Silvaire Roadhouse is the cold. It’s 9pm and the Crabitat grounds are coated in a layer of frost. She thinks of the mild Texas winters, about the late-night trail rides she would take to clear her head. She imagines herself on horseback, riding out over the fallow and into the vast, silent expanse surrounding the ranch. She can almost feel the familiar tepid January air against her skin, hear the reassuring rhythm of hooves on soft ground. _Da, da, dum. Da, da, dum. Da, da, dum._  
  
The next thing that hits Silvaire Roadhouse is a 106 mile-per-hour fastball.

The bite of rubber on cold skin brings her back to the present.  
  
“You’re supposed to swing, dipshit,” Henderson mocks her from the mound.  
  
“Head was someplace else,” she tells him.  
  
Like he gives a fuck. He’s already winding up for the next pitch.  
  
She glances at the red welt which blots the dark skin of her forearm. She isn’t much bothered. Been pricked by horse antlers enough that any pain short of a broken bone is just background noise.  
  
The next ball comes, a real heater. She swings, powerful but imprecise.  
  
 _Thunk._ _  
_ _  
_The ball clips the top of the bat, veering off behind her and into the stands. Henderson sighs audibly.  
  
“Fuck it.”  
  
He turns to walk away.  
  
“Hold on now, y’can’t call me out here then decide you’re bored after ten minutes,” she protests. “Pitch me another.”  
  
“I might as well pitch a fuckin’ tent for how long it’s taking you just to hit a ball,” he says.  
  
“Better than pitchin’ one at home alone, ain’t it?” she jokes.  
  
She swears she catches a glimpse of a smile.  
  
“Whatever,” he replies. He grabs another ball.  
  
She grips the bat tight. It's a loaner from Henderson; the barrel is flecked with dents from overuse, and the top is inexplicably wrapped in bandages. She’s not unconvinced a good hit won’t shatter the thing in two. The weight is good at least, and the length is just right that If she holds it out in front of her, it could almost be Pawpaw’s old Winchester. Well, maybe a little too light for that. She slicks back some stray curls of hair from her face, then pulls the bat upright, does her best to copy Nagomi’s stance from the one blaseball game she's actually ever seen.  
  
She inhales deeply.  
  
Henderson pitches.  
  
She exhales.  
  
She swings.  
  
 _THWACK._  
  
The ball soars into the sky. Silvaire revels in satisfaction as it ascends, then watches in despair as it falls back down into foul ground.  
  
“Better than a miss, right?” she asks, earnestly.  
  
Henderson doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t leave, either. He just grabs another ball.  
  
Pitches it.  
  
Inhale.  
  
Exhale.  
  
 _THWACK._ _  
_  
“Why’d you call me out here, anyway?” she asks.  
  
Silence. Another ball. Another pitch.  
  
Inhale.  
  
Exhale.  
  
 _THWACK._  
  
His lip is still busted from the ass-kicking he was receiving when they first met, barely a week ago. Every now and then, he forgets, licking his lip then wincing in pain. He’s got some fresh bruises around his neck, too, but they don’t look like they’re from fighting.  
  
Inhale. Exhale. _THWACK._ _  
_ _  
_Inhale. Exhale. _THWACK._ _  
_

Inhale. Exhale.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Henderson’s just standing there, ball palmed between both hands. He punches them together a few times.  
  
“He was a fuckin’ idiot,” he mutters. He pitches again. There’s anger behind the toss.  
  
 _THWACK._  
  
A beautiful line drive. The ball shoots back at him like a bullet.  
  
He catches it without so much as a blink.  
  
“Who?” she asks.  
  
“Combs.”  
  
She remembers hearing his name in the news. Incinerated over a rule dispute. Poor bastard.  
  
Henderson’s got a thousand-yard stare. He blinks out of it, draws back to pitch again.  
  
She doesn’t press him any further. She gets the sense he doesn’t want her to.  
  
Inhale. Exhale. _THWACK._  
  
They carry on this way for hours.  
  
When Silvaire catches the scoreboard clock ticking over to midnight, she decides to call it.  
  
Henderson just grunts. Picks up the leftover balls and leaves.  
  
But somehow...he seems lighter.  
  
“Same time next week?” she calls out as he’s walking away.  
  
He doesn’t respond.  
  
…  
  
But the next week, he’s there.  
  


*  
  
  
It becomes like a ritual.  
  
Every sunday, nine o’clock sharp, they’re there.  
Henderson pitches, Silvaire hits.  
  
(She can usually tell his mood by how fast his pitches are.)  
  
Mostly, they just play in silence.  
  
But occasionally, he’ll pipe up.  
  
Nothing big, maybe a sentence or two, and usually just to air a grievance.  
  
Kid’s got a lot of grievances.  
  
The city.  
  
His dad.  
  
The game.  
  
She doesn’t normally press him; he wouldn’t answer if she did.  
  
But when one week she decides to ask,  
  
“Why don’t you quit?”  
  
Henderson tells her,  
  
“I get to see _him_.”  
  
She’s sure she sees a smile this time.  
  
She doesn’t press him for more.

  
*  
  


It’s another couple of weeks before “he” comes up again.  
  
But this time, there’s a name.  
  
Henderson pitches.  
  
Inhale. Exhale. _SWOOSH_.  
  
The bat finds air.  
  
 _THWACK_ _  
_ _  
_Silvaire’s head reels backward as the ball collides solidly with her face.  
  
She remembers being thirteen, mucking out the horses back on the ranch.  
  
She remembers giving one a mighty scare by accident, and getting one of their trotters to the face for her trouble.  
  
This doesn’t hurt as much as that,  
  
But it ain’t far off.  
  
Despite herself, she smiles.  
  
For the first time since meeting him almost a month ago, she hears Henderson audibly laugh.  
  
“You make Declan look like fuckin’ Mcdaniel,” he says.

  
She lowers her chin, wipes away the blood dripping from her nose.  
  
Pulls the bat up again.

“Just throw the damn ball,” she laughs.

  
*

  
She’s gotten accustomed to fastballs catching her off guard,  
  
But not questions.  
  
It’s almost March, and it’s mild enough out that she doesn’t mind staying out later.  
  
It’s near as damnit two in the morning when Tillman asks her,  
  
“So why the hell’d you come to Baltimore anyway?”  
  
There’s an air of disinterest in his voice, but he waits for her to answer.  
  
Inhale. Exhale. _THWACK._  
  
“Change of scenery, I guess?” she answers.  
  
He snorts.  
  
He knows she’s lying. He doesn’t push it any further.  
  
He just pitches again.  
  
She thinks back to the hot Texan nights, sat out on the porch, whiskey in hand. Smells the thick scent of manure on the spring air. Hears the gentle rhythmic _creak, creak, creak_ of Pawpaw’s chair rocking back and forth.  
  
Then hears it stop.  
  
It’s a clear night in Baltimore,  
  
But she tells herself it’s rain running down her cheek.  
  
Inhale. Exhale. _THWACK._  
  
For the rest of the night, she bats just a little harder.  
  


*  
  


Even when Tillman moves to batting, their routine doesn’t change.  
  
He pitches, she hits.  
  
She finds the regularity comforting.  
  


She thinks he does, too.  
  
*  
  


It’s a Wednesday, and she’s in the Crabs’ dugout.  
  
Tillman had invited her to come watch their next game, against the Lovers. In his own way, at least.  
  
“Maybe you should come see a real batter play, learn not to fuckin’ suck so hard.”  
  
So she did.  
  
It’s a uncharacteristically sunny day in Baltimore, but the sky around the stadium is pitch black.  
  
She’s heard stuff like this can happen during blaseball games, but it’s her first time seeing it in person.  
  
Tillman told her it isn’t like a normal eclipse; it’s safe to look at.  
  
...In his own way, at least.  
  
“What’s it gonna do, blind you? Don’t be a pussy, Silv.”  
  
So she does.  
  
It looks wrong. She can’t put her finger on why, but it just...does.  
  
She decides to look away.  
  
It’s the bottom of the fifth.  
  
Ortiz Lopez is batting and,  
  
There’s a commotion.  
  
Tillman’s mad. He’s pointing at an umpire and shouting something which Silvaire can’t quite hear.  
  
She knows it’s something obscene.  
  
Parra manages to pull him away, but not before Tillman throws the umpire the finger.  
  
Everyone else sees it before he does.  
  
A plume of smoke billowing from the umpire’s mask.  
  
Beneath the smoke, the umpire’s eyes flash hot-white  
  
And for a second, so does the eclipse  
  
She screams  
  
But  
  
The  
  
Words  
  
Don’t  
  
Reach  
  
Silvaire Roadhouse watches as a column of beautiful white shines down from the skies,  
  
And engulfs Tillman Henderson.  
  
By the time she reaches the field,  
  
The ash is already scattering.  
  
  


*

  
It’s a small funeral.  
  
Just the Crabs,  
  
Including Silvaire (their newest hitter),  
  
And one more person.  
  
Another kid.  
  
She wonders who would wear cat ears to a funeral.  
  
She thinks she knows the answer.  
  
He doesn’t give a eulogy.  
  
He just steps up to the urn,  
  
Whispers three words,

Then leaves.  
  
  
*  
  
It’s the top of the third against the Thieves.  
  
She steps up to the plate.  
  
Lifts the dented bat.  
  
Copies the stance he taught her, just once.  
  
Inhale.  
  
Exhale.  
  
 _THWACK_.  
  
The ball soars..  
  
She sprints, feels the cool Baltimore air on her skin. Hears the crowd roar, the dirt crunching underfoot. 

Passes First,  
  
Passes Second,  
  
Passes Third,

And...  
  
She’s Home.


End file.
